BENEDICT XVI: NEWS, PAPAL TEXTS, PHOTOS AND COMMENTARY

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Dear brothers and sisters!

One of the most moving words of Sacred Scripture resounds in today's liturgy. The Holy handed it through the pen of the so-called 'second Isaiah' who, in order to comfort Jerusalem that had been so struck by misfortune, expressed himself thus: "Can a mother forget her infant, be without tenderness for the child of her womb? Even should she forget, I will never forget you" (Is 49,15).

This invitation to trust in the indefectible love of God is coupled with the equally suggestive page in the Gospel of Matthew in which Jesus exhorts his disciples to trust in the providence of the heavenly Father, who feeds the birds of the air and clothes the lilies of the field and knows our every need (cfr 6,24-34).

The Master says: "So do not worry and say, 'What are we to eat?' or 'What are we to drink?' or 'What are we to wear?' All these things the pagans seek. Your heavenly Father knows that you need them all" (cfr 6,31-32).

In the face of the situations of so many persons. near and far, who live in poverty, this discourse by Jesus may appear hardly realistic if not evasive. In fact, the Lord wants it understood clearly that one cannot serve two masters: God and wealth.

He who believes in God, the Father full of love for his children, gives first place to the quest for his Kingdom, his will. This is the very opposite of fatalism or of an ingenuous irenism. Faith in Providence, in fact, does not exempt us from the effortful struggle for a more dignified life, but free from anxiety for things and from fear of tomorrow.

It is clear that this teaching of Jesus, although it is always true and valid for everyone, is practised in different ways according to our various vocations. A Franciscan friar could follow it in a more radical way, while the father of a family must keep in mind his own duty towards his wife and children.

In every case, however, the Christian is distinguished by his absolute trust in the heavenly Father as it was with Jesus. It is precisely his relationship with God the Father that gives sense to all of Christ's life, to his words, to his gestures of salvation, to his passion, death and resurrection.

Jesus has shown us what it means to live with feet well planted on the ground, attentive to the concrete situations of our neighbor, while at the same time, always having one's heart in heaven, immersed in God's mercy.

Dear friends, in the light of God's Word this Sunday, I invite you to invoke the Virgin Mary with the title Mother of Divine Providence. To her, let us entrust our life, the journey of the Church, the events of history.

In particular, let us invoke her intercession so that we may all learn to live with a simpler and more moderate style in daily industry and respect for Creation that God has entrusted to our custody.

Later, he said in English:

I welcome all the English-speaking pilgrims and visitors gathered for this Angelus prayer. In today’s Gospel Jesus invites us to trust in the provident care of our heavenly Father and to seek first his Kingdom and its righteousness.

May his words inspire us to see all things in their true perspective and to live our lives in joyful faith and sure hope in God’s promises. Upon you and your families I invoke the Lord’s abundant blessings!

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Today, Monday 28 February 2011, the Holy Father Benedict XVI received in audience Jerzey Buzek, president of the European Parliament.

The president subsequently went on to meet with Cardinal Secretary of State Tarcisio Bertone S.D.B. who was accompanied by Archbishop Dominique Mamberti, secretary for Relations with States.

The discussions, which took place in a cordial atmosphere, provided an opportunity for a fruitful exchange of opinions concerning relations between the Catholic Church, the European Parliament and other European institutions, as well as the contribution the Church can make to the Union.

In the course of the meeting attention also turned to questions of current affairs, such as commitment to promoting religious freedom and the protection of Christian minorities in the world.

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Pope tackles new media again:
'Proclaim Gospel authentically
in a techno-savvy world'
By Carol Glatz


VATICAN CITY, Feb. 28 (CNS) - Just as Jesus was able to effectively communicate God's word with parables involving pastures and sheep, the Church needs to discover modern day metaphors that will capture the attention and hearts of today's tech-savvy men and women, Pope Benedict XVI said.

However, proclaiming the Gospel can't be based on punchy slogans or "linguistic seduction," he said. Rather, he said, the communicator must be a true witness who displays Christian values and respect for dialogue.

The Pope spoke to participants of the Pontifical Council for Social Communications' plenary assembly being held Feb. 28-March 3 on the theme "Language and Communication."

"The digital culture poses new challenges to our ability to speak and listen to a symbolic language that speaks of transcendence," the Pope said on Monday.

Jesus knew to use symbols and ideas that were an essential part of the culture at the time, such as sheep, fields, seeds, the banquet or feast and so on, he said.

"Today we are called to discover, in the digital culture, too, symbols and metaphors that are meaningful to people, that can be helpful in talking to modern men and women about the kingdom of God," he said.

However, communicators must never base their effectiveness on "linguistic seduction, as is the case with the serpent (in the Garden of Eden) or on incommunicability and violence as with Cain," he said.

Communicating the Bible "according to God's will is always tied to dialogue and responsibility as, for example, the figures of Abraham, Moses, Job and the prophets bear witness," he said.

Communication needs to be "truly human" and based on spiritual values and meaning.

Catholics can help the digital realm by "opening up new horizons of meaning and values that the digital culture is not able to indicate or represent by itself," he said.

That would mitigate some of the risks present in today's digital communication such as the loss of inner reflection, superficial relationships, wallowing in emotionalism, and the prevalence of persuasive opinions over the truth, he said.

Pope Benedict held up as an effective communicator Father Matteo Ricci, the 16th-century Jesuit missionary to China who not only learned the Chinese language, but adopted the lifestyle and customs of cultured Chinese people and gained the people's respect.

The Pope said Father Ricci spread Christ's message by always considering the people he was speaking to "in their cultural and philosophical context, their values and their language, gathering all that was positive from their tradition, and offering to enliven it and elevate it with the wisdom and truth of Christ."

Faith, in fact, always "penetrates, enriches, exalts and invigorates culture," while culture in turn offers faith a vehicle for expression -- namely its language, he said.

That is why Church leaders must be aided in becoming able to "interpret and speak the new language of the mass media" for their pastoral work, he said.

Some of the questions Catholic communicators need to ask are: What challenges does the digital mindset pose to the faith and theology, and what are the effects of people's almost constant contact with computers and mobile devices, the Pope asked.

Archbishop Claudio Celli, head of the Pontifical Council for Social Communications, told Vatican Radio Feb. 27 that a communication style that is authentic and respectful is very important.

A person's Christian faith should come through to others, not because the topic is strictly religious, but because the way the person interacts with others shows "he has in his heart the Gospel message and, therefore, lives in communion with the Lord Jesus."

Bringing the Gospel to others is "not an imposition or commercial announcement, but a communication about life, a communication that goes from the heart of one person to the heart of another," the archbishop said.

Such witness to the truth must also be done "with a tone of discretion and respect for others," he added.


THE POPE'S ADDRESS

Feb. 28, 2011

At 12 noon Monday, the Holy Father met the participants of the plenary assembly of the Pontifical Council for Social Communications who are meeting in Rome March 1-4 on the theme 'Language and Communications'. After the greeting by the president of the Council, Archbishop Claudio Naria Celli, the Holy Father gave the following address, translated here from Italian.

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Dear brothers and sisters,

I am happy to welcome you on the occasion of the dicastery's plenary assembly. I greet the president, Mons. Claudio Maria Celli, and thank him for his kind words, the secretaries, officials, consultors and all the staff.

In the Message for this year's World Day for Social Communications, I called for a reflection on the fact that the new technologies not only change the way we communicate, but are also operating a vast cultural transformation.

A new way of learning and thinking is being developed, with unprecedented opportunities to stabilize relationships and build communion. I wish to dwell this time on the fact that thought and relationships always take the modality of language, understood in its wider sense, not just verbal.

Language is not just a simple coating that is interchangeable and provisional to express concepts, but the living and pulsating context in which the thoughts, concerns and plans of men are born in his consciousness and are formed into gestures, symbols and words.

Man therefore does not just 'use' language, he lives in language.

Today, especially, those which the Second Vatican Council defined as 'marvelous technical inventions' Inter mirifica, 1] are transforming the cultural environment, and this requires a specific attention to the languages that develop within it.

The new technologies "have the capacity to weigh not only on the modalities but also on the contents of thought" (Aetatis novae, 4).

The new languages that are being developed in digital communication determine, among other things, a capacity that is more intuitive and emotive than analytical, and are oriented towards a different logical organization of thought and of relationship with reality, often favoring images and hypertextual linkages.

Moreover, the traditional clear distinction between written and oral language seems to be shading in favor of written communication that takes the form and the immediacy of orality.

The very dynamics of 'participatory links' further require that the person be involved in whatever he is communicating. When persons exchange information, they are already sharing themselves and their view of the world: they become 'witnesses' to what gives meaning to their existence, the predominance of the most convincing opinion over the desire for truth.

Of course, the attendant risks are before everyone's eyes: the loss of interiority, the superficiality in living these relations, the escape of emotiveness, the prevalence of the most convincing opinion over the desire for truth.

These are the consequences of an incapacity to live with fullness and in an authentic manner the meaning of these innovations. And this why reflection on the languages developed by the new technologies is urgent.

The point of departure is Revelation itself, which testifies to us how God communicated his wonders in the language and real experience of humans, "according to the culture of each age" (Gaudium et spes, 58), until his own full manifestation in the Incarnate Son.

The truth always penetrates, it enriches, exalts, and enlivens culture, which in turn, becomes a vehicle of faith, to which it offers the language to think and to express itself. Thus, it is necessary to become attentive listeners to the languages of men in our time, in order to be attentive to the work of God in the world.

In this context, the work done by the Pontifical Council for Social Communications in a deeper examination of 'digital culture' is important, to stimulate and sustain reflection towards a better awareness about the challenges that await both civilian and ecclesial society.

It is not just about expressing the evangelical message in the language of today, but one must also have the courage to think in a more profound way, as in other eras, of the relationship among faith, the life of the Church, and the changes that man is experiencing,

It also means the commitment to help those who have responsibility in the Church to be able to understand, interpret and talk the 'new language' of the media as a pastoral function (cfr Aetatis novae, 2), in dialog with the contemporary world, asking oneself: What`are the challenges that so-called 'digital thinking' could pose to faith and to theology? What demands and what questions?

The world of communications is of interest to the entire cultural, social and spiritual universe of the human being. If the new languages have an impact on how we think and how we live, then this must concern, in some way, even the world of faith, its intelligence and its expression.

Theology, according to a classical definition, is intelligence of the faith, and we know very well that intelligence, understood as a reflective and critical knowledge, is not extraneous to the cultural changes under way.

Digital culture presents new challenges to our ability to speak and listen to a symbolic language that speaks of the transcendental. Jesus himself in announcing the Kingdom used elements of the culture and the environment of his time: flocks of sheep, fields, the banquet, seeds, etc.

Today we are called on to discover, even in digital culture, symbols and metaphors that are significant for people, that can be of help in speaking about the Kingdom of God to contemporary man.

One must also consider that communication in the time of the 'new media' entails an increasingly closer and ordinary relation between men and machines - from computers to cellular telephones, to cite just the most common. What will be the effects of these constant relationships?

Already, Pope Paul VI, referring to the first plans to automate the linguistic analysis of Biblical texts, indicated a path of reflection when he asked: "Is not this effort to infuse mechanical instruments with the reflection of spiritual functions, then ennobled and exalted to a service which approaches the sacred? Is it the spirit which has become prisoner of matter, or is it not perhaps matter, already tamed and obliged to carry out the laws of the spirit, which offers the supreme obsequy to the spirit itself?" (Address to the Automation Center of the Aloisianum in Gallarate, 9 June 1964),

One senses in these words the profound link to the spirit to which technology is called on by vocation (Caritas in veritate, 69).

It is precisely this appeal to spiritual values that allows promoting a communication that is truly human: beyond every facile enthusiasm or skepticism, we know that it is a response to the call imprinted into our nature as creatures in the image and likeness of the God of Communion.

Because of this, Biblical communication according to the will of God is always linked to dialog and responsibility, as attested by figures like Abraham, Moses, Job and the Prophets - and never to linguistic seduction, which was the case, for instance, of the serpent, or of incommunicability and violence as in the case of Cain.

The contribution of believers can therefore be helpful for the world of the media themselves, opening horizons of meaning and value which digital culture cannot, by itself, glimpse and represent.

In conclusion, I am pleased to recall, along with many other figures of communicators, that of Fr. Matteo Ricci, protagonist of announcing the Gospel in China in the modern era, of whose death we recently celebrated the fourth centenary.

In his work of spreading the message of Christ, he always considered the recipient person, his cultural and philosophical context, his values, his language, gleaning everything that he found positive in his tradition, and then offering to inspire and exalt him with the wisdom and truth of Jesus.

Dear friends, I thank you for your service: I entrust it to the protection of the Virgin Mary, and, in assuring you of my prayers, I impart to all the Apostolic Blessing.

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[Modificato da TERESA BENEDETTA 02/03/2011 04:13]

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General Intention: That the nations of Latin America may walk in fidelity to the Gospel and be bountiful in social justice and peace.

Missionary Intention: That the Holy Spirit may give light and strength to the Christian communities and the faithful who are persecuted or discriminated against because of the Gospel.

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The assassination of Pakistan's Minister for Minorities, Sahbaz Bhatti, is a new fact of violence of terrible seriousness, It demonstrates how right were the Pope's insistent interventions regarding violence against Christians and against religious freedom in general.

Bhatti was the first Catholic to have such an important position [in Pakistan]. Let us recall that he was received by te Holy Father last September and that he had given witness to his commitment to peaceful coexistence among the religious communities of his nation.

In addition to our prayers for the victim, the condemnation of this indescribable act of violence, our closeness to Pakistani Christians who are at the mercy of such violence, we appeal that everyone take note of the dramatic urgency to defend religious freedom and Christians who are the object of violence and persecution.

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Our catechesis today deals with Saint Francis de Sales, an outstanding Bishop and master of the spiritual life in the period following the Council of Trent.

After a powerful experience of God’s liberating love in his youth, Saint Francis became a priest and then Bishop of Geneva, at that time a stronghold of Calvinism. His fine education, his personal gifts of charity, serenity and openness to dialogue, together with his brilliance as a spiritual guide, made Francis a leading figure of his age.

His spiritual writings include the celebrated Introduction to the Devout Life, which insists that all Christians are called to perfection in their proper state of life, foreshadowing the insistence of the Second Vatican Council on the universal call to holiness.

His Treatise on the Love of God develops this teaching, stressing that we find ourselves and our true freedom in the love of God.

The Christian humanism of Saint Francis de Sales has lost none of its relevance today. May this great Saint and Doctor of the Church guide us in the pursuit of holiness and help us to find our fulfilment in the joy and freedom born of the love of God.

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Third illustration from left, St. Francis de Sales with St. Frances de Chantal; extreme right, the statue of St. Francis in St. Peter's Basilica.

"Dieu est le Dieu du coeur humain" [God is the God with a human heart] (Trattato dell’Amore di Dio, I, XV): From these apparently simple words, we grasp the brand of spirituality of the great`teacher about whom I wish to speak to you today - St. Francis de Sales, Bishop and Doctor of the Church.

Born in 1567 in a frontier region of France, he was the son of the Seigneur du Boisy, an ancient noble family in the Savoy. As his life straddled two centuries, the 16th and the 17th, he accumulated the best of the teachings and cultural conquests of the century that was ending, reconciling the legacy of humanism with the impulse towards the absolute associated with mystical currents.

He had a very thorough formation. He went to Paris for higher studies, dedicating himself to theology, and at the University of Padua, to jurisprudence as his father wanted, brilliantly concluded with a doctorate utoque iure, i.e., in both canon law and civil law.

In his harmonious youth, reflecting on the thought of St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas, he had a profound crisis which led him to interrogate himself on his own eternal salvation and on God's predestination for him, suffering the principal theological questions of his time as his own spiritual drama.

He prayed intensely, but doubt tormented him so strongly that for some weeks, he could not eat or sleep. At the peak of this ordeal, he went to the church of the Dominicans in Paris, opened his heart and prayed thus:

"Whatever happens, Lord, you who hold everything in your hands, and whose ways are justice and truth; whatever you have determined for me..., you who are always a right judge and merciful Father, I will love you, Lord.. I will love you here, my God, and I will always hope for your mercy, and will always repeat your praises... O Lord Jesus, you will always be my hope and my salvation in the land of the living" (I Proc. Canon., vol I, art 4).

The 20-year-old Francis found peace in the radical and liberating love of God: to love him without asking anything in return, and to trust in divine love - "not to ask more than what God wants to do with me`- I will love him simply, independent of how much he gives me or does not give me."

Thus he found peace, and the question of predestination = which was much discussed at that time - was resolved, because he no longer sought what he could get from God, he simply loved him and abandoned himself to his goodness.

This would be the secret of his life which would shine through his principal work, Treatise on the Love of God.

Over the objections of his father, Francis followed the call of the Lord, and on December 18, 1593, he was ordained a priest. In 1602, he became-Bishop of Geneva, during a time when the city was the stronghold of Calvinism, such that the bishop's seat was found in exile in Annecy (France).

Pastor of a poor and tormented diocese, in a mountain landscape whose beauty and severity he knew well, he wrote: "I encountered God full of kindness and gentleness among our highest and steepest mountains, where many simple souls loved and adored him in all truth and sincerity, and where goats and chamois ran here and there among the rocks in agitation to announce his praises"; (Letter to the mother of St. Chantal, Oct. 1606, in Oeuvres, éd. Mackey, t. XIII, p. 223).

And yet, the influence of his life and teaching on the Europe of his time and of succeeding centuries appears immense. He was apostle, preacher, writer, man of action and of prayer - committed to realizing the ideals of the Council of Trent; involved in controversy and dialog with Protestants, experiencing ever more, beyond the necessary theological confrontation, the effectiveness of personal relations and charity; entrusted with diplomatic missions on the European level, and of social assignments of mediation and reconciliation.

But above all, St. Francis de Sales was a spiritual guide: his meeting with a young woman, the lady of Charmoisy, led him to write one of the most widely-read books in modern times, the Introduction to devout life.

From his profound spiritual communion with an exceptional woman, St. Jeanne Francoise De Chantal, was born a new religious family, the Order of the Visitation, characterized, as the saint wished it to be, by total consecration to God, lived in simplicity and humility by doing ordinary things extraordinarily well: "...I want my daughters," he wrote, "to have no other ideal but to glorify our Lord with their humility" (Letter to Mons. de Marquemond, Juneo 1615).

He died in 1622, aged 55, after an existence that was marked by the harshness of the time and by apostolic labor.

The life of St. Francis was relatively brief, but it was lived with great intensity. An impression of rare fullness emanates from the figure of this saint, which was demonstrated in his intellectual quest, but also by the wealth of his affections, by thee 'gentleness' of his teachings which have had a great influence on Christian consciousness.

He incarnated the various connotations of the word 'humanity' which, yesterday as today, this word can assume: culture and courtesy, freedom and kindness, mobility and solidarity.

In appearance, he had something of the majesty of the landscape where he lived, including its simplicity and naturalness. The ancient words and images with which he expressed himself sound unexpectedly like a native and familiar language to the ears of man today.

To Filotea [God lover], the ideal addressee of his Introduction to a devout life, Francis de Sales addressed an invitation which could have appeared revolutionary in his time - the invitation to be completely of God, whiles living fully one's presence in the world and the tasks assigned to one. "My intention is to instruct those who live in the cities, in married life, in [royal] court... (Preface to the Introduction...].

The document with which Pope Leo XIII, more than two centuries later, proclaimed him a Doctor of the Church, would insist on this broadening of the call to perfection, to holiness: "True piety had penetrated up to the thrones of kings, to the tents of army generals, to judges' courts, to offices, to shops, and to shepherds' huts..." (Brief, Dives in misericordia, Nov. 16, 1877).

Thus was born that appeal to laymen, that attention for the consecration of temporal things and for the sanctification of the day-to-day which the Second Vatican Council emphasized, and which characterizes the spirituality of our time.

The ideal of a reconciled humanity was manifested in the harmony between worldly activity and prayer, between the secular condition and the quest for perfection, with the aid of God's grace which permeates man, and which, without destroying him, purifies him and elevates him to the heights of the divine.

To Teotimus [God-fearer], the spiritually mature Christian adult to whom he would ideally address years later his Treatise on God's love (1614), St. Francis de Sales offers a more complex lesson. It initially presupposes a precise view of the human being, an anthropology, in which man's 'reason', or rather, his 'reasonable spirit', is seen as a harmonious architecture, a temple, articulated in many spaces around a center that he called, along with the great mystics, 'the peak', the spiritual 'summit', also the 'base' of the soul.

It is the point at which reason, having gone through all its various stages, 'closes its eyes' and knowledge becomes one with love (cfr Book 1, Chap, XII).

That divine love, in its theological dimension, is the raison d'etre of all things, on an ascending scale that does not recognize fractures and abysses, was summed up by St. Francis de Sales in a famous statement: "Man is the perfection of the universe; the spirit is the perfection of man; love is the perfection of the spirit, and charity that of love" [ibid., Book I, Chap. XII).

At a time of intense mystical flowering, the Treatise on God's love was a true and proper summa, as well as a fascinating literary work. Its description of the itinerary towards God starts from a recognition of the 'natural inclination' (ibid., Book I, Chapter XV) that is inscribed in the heart of man, sinner as he is, to love God above all things.

Following the model of Sacred Scripture, St. Francis de Sales speaks of the union between God and man by developing a series of images on inter-personal relationship.

His God is father and lord, spouse and friend, with the characteristics of a mother and a nurse, the sun of which even the night is mysterious revelation. Such a God draws man to him with the chains of love, which is true freedom: "since love has no forced labor or slaves, but reduces everything to its obedience with a power so delicious that, if nothing is so strong as love, nothing is more amiable than its power" (ibid., Book I, Chapter VI).

We find in our Saint's treatise a profound meditation on human will and the description of its flow, passage, and death in order to live (cfr ibid., Book IX, Chapter XIII) in complete abandonment not only to the will of God, but to that which pleases him, to his bon plaisir, to his assent (cfr ibid., Book IX, Chapter I).

At the peak of the union with God, beyond the raptures of contemplative ecstasy, one finds that reflux of concrete charity which makes one attentive to all the needs of others and which the saint called 'the ecstasy of life and works' (ibid., Book VII, Chapter VI).

One notes very well, while reading the book on God's love, and even more, in his many letters of spiritual direction and friendship, what a connoisseur of the human heart St. Francis de Sales was.

To St. Jeanne Chantal, he wrote: "...Here is the rule of our obedience which I will write in capital letters: DO EVERYTHING FOR LOVE, NOTHING BY FORCE - LOVE OBEDIENCE MORE THAN YOU FEAR DISOBEDIENCE. I leave you the spirit of freedom, not that which excludes obedience, which is the freedom of the world, but that which excludes violence, anxiety and qualms" )Letter, Oct. 14, 1604).

That is why at the origin of many ways of pedagogy and spiritual guidance in our time, we find traces of this teacher without whom there would have been no St. John Bosco nor the heroic 'little way' of St. Therese of Lisieux.

Dear brothers and sisters, at a time like ours which seeks freedom, even through violence and unrest, we must not ignore the relevance of this great teacher of spirituality and peace, who advised his disciples 'the spirit of freedom', the true one, as the culmination of fascinating and complete teaching on the reality of love.

St. Francis de Sales is an exemplary witness of Christian humanism. With his familiar [communication] style, with parables that often have the wings of poetry, he reminds us that man carries inscribed in his deepest intimacy the nostalgia for God, and who can find only in him true joy and his own most complete fulfillment.

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Now we must ask: who exactly were Jesus’s accusers? Who insisted that he be condemned to death? We must take note of the different answers that the Gospels give to this question. According to John it was simply “the Jews”.

But John’s use of this expression does not in any way indicate – as the modern reader might suppose – the people of Israel in general, even less is it “racist” in character. After all, John himself was ethnically a Jew, as were Jesus and all his followers. The entire early Christian community was made up of Jews.

The Temple aristocracy
In John’s Gospel this word has a precise and clearly defined meaning: he is referring to the Temple aristocracy. So the circle of accusers who instigate Jesus’ death is precisely indicated in the Fourth Gospel and clearly limited: it is the Temple aristocracy – and not without certain exceptions, as the reference to Nicodemus (7:50ff.) shows.

Barabbas’s friends
In Mark’s Gospel, the circle of accusers is broadened in the context of the Passover amnesty (Barabbas or Jesus): the “ochlos” enters the scene and opts for the release of Barabbas. “Ochlos” in the first instance simply means a crowd of people, the “masses”. The word frequently has a pejorative connotation, meaning “mob”. In any event it does not refer to the Jewish people as such.

Effectively this “crowd” is made up of the followers of Barabbas who have been mobilized to secure the amnesty for him: as a rebel against Roman power he could naturally count on a good number of supporters.

So the Barabbas party, the “crowd”, was conspicuous while the followers of Jesus remained hidden out of fear; this meant that the vox populi, on which Roman law was built, was represented one-sidedly.

In Mark’s account, then, as well as “the Jews”, that is to say the dominant priestly circle, the ochlos comes into play, the circle of Barabbas’ supporters, but not the Jewish people as such.

“His blood be on us and on our children”
When in Matthew’s account the “whole people” say: “his blood be on us and on our children” (27:25), the Christian will remember that Jesus’s blood speaks a different language from the blood of Abel (Heb 12:24): it does not cry out for vengeance and punishment, it brings reconciliation.

It is not poured out against anyone, it is poured out for many, for all. "All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God … God put [Jesus] forward as an expiation by his blood" (Rom 3:23, 25).

Just as Caiaphas’s words about the need for Jesus’s death have to be read in an entirely new light from the perspective of faith, the same applies to Matthew’s reference to blood: read in the light of faith, it means that we all stand in need of the purifying power of love which is his blood.

These words are not a curse, but rather redemption, salvation.

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“…read in the light of faith, it means that we all stand in need of the purifying power of love which is his blood. These words are not a curse, but rather redemption, salvation. Only when understood in terms of the theology of the Last Supper and the Cross, drawn from the whole of the New Testament, does this verse from Matthew’s Gospel take on its correct meaning.” (p.187-188).

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The account of the washing of the feet presents us with two different human responses to this gift, exemplified by Judas and Peter. Immediately after the exhortation to follow his example, Jesus begins to speak of Judas. John tells us in this regard that Jesus was troubled in spirit and testified: “Truly, truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me” (13:21).

John speaks three times of Jesus being “troubled”: beside the grave of Lazarus (11:33, 38), on “Palm Sunday” after the saying about the dying grain of wheat in a scene reminiscent of Gethsemane (12:24–27), and finally here.

These are moments when Jesus encounters the majesty of death and rubs against the might of darkness, which it is his task to wrestle with and overcome. We shall return to this “troubling” of Jesus’s spirit when we consider the night spent on the Mount of Olives.

Let us return to our text. Understandably, the prophecy of the betrayal produces agitation and curiosity among the disciples. “One of his disciples, whom Jesus loved, was lying close to the breast of Jesus: so Simon Peter beckoned to him and said, ‘Tell us who it is of whom he speaks.’

So lying thus, close to the breast of Jesus, he said to him: ‘Lord, who is it?’ Jesus answered: ‘It is he to whom I shall give this morsel when I have dipped it’ (13:23–26).

In order to understand this text, it should be noted first of all that reclining at table was prescribed for the Passover meal. Charles K. Barrett explains the verse just quoted as follows:

“Persons taking part in a meal reclined on the left side; the left arm was used to support the body, the right was free for use. The disciple to the right of Jesus would thus find his head immediately in front of Jesus and might accordingly be said to lie in his bosom.

"Evidently he would be in a position to speak intimately with Jesus, but his was not the place of greatest honor; this was to the left of the host. The place occupied by the beloved disciple was nevertheless the place of a trusted friend”; Barrett then makes reference to a passage from Pliny (The Gospel according to Saint John, p. 446).

Jesus’s answer, as given here, is quite unambiguous. Yet the evangelist says that the disciples still did not understand whom he meant. So we must assume that John retrospectively attributed a clarity to the Lord’s answer that it lacked at the time for those present.

John 13:18 brings us onto the right track. Here Jesus says, “The Scripture must be fulfilled: ‘He who ate my bread has lifted his heel against me’ ” (cf. Ps 41:9; Ps 55:13). This is Jesus’s classic way of speaking: he alludes to his destiny using words from Scripture, thereby locating it directly within God’s logic, within the logic of salvation history.

At a later stage, these words become fully transparent; it is seen that Scripture really does describe the path he is to tread — but for now the enigma remains.

All that can be deduced at this point is that one of those at table will betray Jesus; it is clear that the Lord will have to endure to the end and to the last detail the suffering of the just, for which the Psalms in particular provide many different expressions.

Jesus must experience the incomprehension and the infidelity even of those within his innermost circle of friends and, in this way, “fulfill the Scripture”. He is revealed as the true subject of the Psalms, the “David” from whom they come and through whom they acquire meaning.

John gives a new depth to the psalm verse with which Jesus spoke prophetically of what lay ahead, since instead of the expression given in the Greek Bible for “eating”, he chooses the verb trogein, the word used by Jesus in the great “bread of life” discourse for “eating” his flesh and blood, that is, receiving the sacrament of the Eucharist ( Jn 6:54–58).

So the psalm verse casts a prophetic shadow over the Church of the evangelist’s own day, in which the Eucharist was celebrated, and indeed over the Church of all times: Judas’s betrayal was not the last breach of fidelity that Jesus would suffer. “Even my bosom friend, in whom I trusted, who ate my bread, has lifted his heel against me” (Ps 41:9).

The breach of friendship extends into the sacramental community of the Church, where people continue to take “his bread” and to betray him.

Jesus’s agony, his struggle against death, continues until the end of the world, as Blaise Pascal said on the basis of similar considerations (cf. Pensées VII, 553). We could also put it the other way around: at this hour, Jesus took upon himself the betrayal of all ages, the pain caused by betrayal in every era, and he endured the anguish of history to the bitter end.

John does not offer any psychological interpretation of Judas’s conduct. The only clue he gives is a hint that Judas had helped himself to the contents of the disciples’ money box, of which he had charge (12:6). In the context of chapter 13, the evangelist merely says laconically: “Then after the morsel, Satan entered into him” (13:27).

For John, what happened to Judas is beyond psychological explanation. He has come under the dominion of another. Anyone who breaks off friendship with Jesus, casting off his “easy yoke”, does not attain liberty, does not become free, but succumbs to other powers. To put it another way, he betrays this friendship because he is in the grip of another power to which he has opened himself.

True, the light shed by Jesus into Judas’s soul was not completely extinguished. He does take a step toward conversion: “I have sinned”, he says to those who commissioned him. He tries to save Jesus, and he gives the money back (Mt 27:3–5). Everything pure and great that he had received from Jesus remained inscribed on his soul — he could not forget it.

His second tragedy — after the betrayal — is that he can no longer believe in forgiveness. His remorse turns into despair. Now he sees only himself and his darkness; he no longer sees the light of Jesus, which can illumine and overcome the darkness.

He shows us the wrong type of remorse: the type that is unable to hope, that sees only its own darkness, the type that is destructive and in no way authentic. Genuine remorse is marked by the certainty of hope born of faith in the superior power of the light that was made flesh in Jesus.

John concludes the passage about Judas with these dramatic words: “After receiving the morsel, he immediately went out; and it was night” (13:30). Judas goes out — in a deeper sense. He goes into the night; he moves out of light into darkness: the “power of darkness” has taken hold of him (cf. Jn 3:19; Lk 22:53).

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The problem of dating Jesus’s Last Supper arises from the contradiction on this point between the Synoptic Gospels, on the one hand, and Saint John’s Gospel, on the other.

Mark, whom Matthew and Luke follow in essentials, gives us a precise dating: “On the first day of Unleavened Bread, when they sacrificed the Passover lamb, his disciples said to him, ‘Where will you have us go and prepare for you to eat the Passover?’ … And when it was evening he came with the Twelve” (14:12, 17).

The evening of the first day of Unleavened Bread, on which the Paschal lambs are slaughtered in the Temple, is the vigil of the Passover feast. According to the chronology of the Synoptics, this was a Thursday.

After sunset, the Passover began, and then the Passover meal was taken - by Jesus and his disciples, as indeed by all the pilgrims who had come to Jerusalem.

On the night leading into Friday, then — still according to the Synoptic chronology — Jesus was arrested and brought before the court; on Friday morning he was condemned to death by Pilate, and subsequently, “around the third hour” (ca.9:00 a.m.), he was led to the Cross. Jesus died at the ninth hour (ca. 3:00 p.m.).

“And when evening had come, since it was the day of Preparation, that is, the day before the sabbath, Joseph of Arimathea … took courage and went to Pilate, and asked for the body of Jesus” (Mk 15:42-43).

The burial had to take place before sunset, because then the Sabbath would begin. The Sabbath is the day when Jesus rested in the tomb. The Resurrection took place on the morning of the “first day of the week”, on Sunday.

This chronology suffers from the problem that Jesus’s trial and crucifixion would have taken place on the day of the Passover feast, which that year fell on a Friday. True, many scholars have tried to show that the trial and crucifixion were compatible with the prescriptions of the Passover.

despite all academic arguments, it seems questionable whether the trial before Pilate and the crucifixion would have been permissible and possible on such an important Jewish feast day. Moreover, there is a comment reported by Mark that militates against this hypothesis.

He tells us that two days before the Feast of Unleavened Bread, the chief priests and scribes were looking for an opportunity to bring Jesus under their control by stealth and kill him, but in this regard, they declared: “not during the feast, lest there be a tumult of the people” (14:1-2). According to the Synoptic chronology, the execution of Jesus would indeed have taken place on the very day of the feast.

Let us now turn to John’s chronology. John goes to great lengths to indicate that the Last Supper was not a Passover meal. On the contrary: the Jewish authorities who led Jesus before Pilate’s court avoided entering the praetorium, “so that they might not be defiled, but might eat the Passover” (18:28).

The Passover, therefore, began only in the evening, and at the time of the trial, the Passover meal had not yet taken place; the trial and crucifixion took place on the day before the Passover, on the “day of preparation”, not on the feast day itself.

The Passover feast in the year in question accordingly ran from Friday evening until Saturday evening, not from Thursday evening until Friday evening.

Otherwise the sequence of events remains the same: Thursday evening -Jesus’s Last Supper with the disciples, but not a Passover meal; Friday, the vigil of the feast, not the feast itself - trial and execution; Saturday - rest in the tomb; Sunday - Resurrection.

According to this chronology, Jesus dies at the moment when the Passover lambs are being slaughtered in the Temple. Jesus dies as the real lamb, merely prefigured by those slain in the Temple.

This theologically significant connection, that Jesus’s death coincides with the slaughter of the Passover lambs, has led many scholars to dismiss John’s presentation as a theological chronology. John, they claim, altered the chronology in order to create this theological connection, which admittedly is not made explicit in the Gospel.

Today, though, it is becoming increasingly clear that John’s chronology is more probable historically than the Synoptic chronology. For as mentioned earlier: trial and execution on the feast seem scarcely conceivable. On the other hand, Jesus’s Last Supper seems so closely tied to the Passover tradition that to deny its Passover character is problematic.

Frequent attempts have been made, therefore, to reconcile the two chronologies with one another. A most important and indeed fascinating attempt to harmonize the two traditions was made by the French scholar Annie Jaubert, who developed her theory in a series of publications starting in 1953. We need not go into the details of this proposal here; let us confine ourselves to the essentials.

Jaubert bases herself primarily on two early texts, which seem to suggest a solution to the problem. First she refers to an ancient priestly calendar handed down in the Book of Jubilees, which was a Hebrew text produced in the second half of the second century before Christ. This calendar leaves the cycles of the moon out of consideration and bases itself upon a year of 364 days, divided into four seasons, each consisting of three months, two of them thirty days long and one thirty-one days long. Each quarter year, then, has ninety-one days, which is exactly thirteen weeks, and each year has exactly fifty-two weeks. Accordingly, the liturgical feasts fall on the same weekday every year. For the Passover, this means that the fifteenth day of Nisan is always a Wednesday and the Passover meal is held after sunset on Tuesday evening.

According to Jaubert, Jesus celebrated the Passover following this calendar, that is, on Tuesday evening, and was arrested during the night leading into Wednesday.

Jaubert sees here the solution to two problems: first, Jesus celebrated a real Passover meal, as the Synoptic tradition maintains; yet John is also right, in that the Jewish authorities, following their own calendar, did not celebrate the Passover until after Jesus’s trial, and Jesus was therefore executed on the vigil of the real Passover, not on the feast itself. Both the Synoptic and the Johannine traditions thus appear to be correct on the basis of the discrepancy between two different calendars.

The second advantage emphasized by Annie Jaubert shows at the same time the weakness of this attempted solution. She points out that the traditional chronologies (Synoptic and Johannine) have to compress a whole series of events into a few hours: the hearing before the Sanhedrin, Jesus being sent over to Pilate, Pilate’s wife’s dream, Jesus being handed over to Herod, his return to Pilate, the scourging, the condemnation to death, the way of the Cross, and the crucifixion. To accomplish all this in the space of a few hours seems scarcely possible, according to Jaubert. Her solution, though, provides a time frame from the night leading into Wednesday to the morning of Good Friday.

She also argues that Mark gives a precise sequence of events for “Palm Sunday”, Monday, and Tuesday, but then leaps directly to the Passover meal. According to the traditional dating, then, two days remain of which nothing is recounted.

Finally, Jaubert reminds us that, if her theory is correct, the Jewish authorities could have succeeded in their plan to kill Jesus in good time before the feast. Pilate then delayed the crucifixion until Friday, so the theory goes, through his hesitations.

One argument against this redating of the Last Supper to Tuesday, of course, is the long tradition assigning it to Thursday, which we find clearly established as early as the second century. Jaubert responds by pointing to the second text on which her theory is based: the so-called Didascalia Apostolorum, a text from the early third century that places the Last Supper on Tuesday. She tries to show that this book preserved an old tradition, traces of which are also found in other texts.

In reply it must be said that the traces of tradition to which she refers are too weak to be convincing. The other difficulty is that Jesus is unlikely to have used a calendar associated principally with Qumran. Jesus went to the Temple for the great feasts. Even if he prophesied its demise and confirmed this with a dramatic symbolic action, he still followed the Jewish festal calendar, as is evident from John’s Gospel in particular.

True, one can agree with Jaubert that the Jubilees calendar was not strictly limited to Qumran and the Essenes. Yet this is not sufficient to justify applying it to Jesus’s Passover. Thus it is understandable that Annie Jaubert’s theory — so fascinating on first sight — is rejected by the majority of exegetes.

I have presented it in some detail because it offers an insight into the complexity of the Jewish world at the time of Jesus, a world that we can reconstruct only to a limited degree, despite all the knowledge of sources now available to us.

So while I would not reject this theory outright, it cannot simply be accepted at face value, in view of the various problems that remain unresolved.

So what are we to say? The most meticulous evaluation I have come across of all the solutions proposed so far is found in the book A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus, by John P. Meier, who at the end of his first volume presents a comprehensive study of the chronology of Jesus’ life.

He concludes that one has to choose between the Synoptic and Johannine chronologies, and he argues, on the basis of the whole range of source material, that the weight of evidence favors John.

John is right when he says that at the time of Jesus’s trial before Pilate, the Jewish authorities had not yet eaten the Passover and, thus, had to keep themselves ritually pure. He is right that the crucifixion took place, not on the feast, but on the day before the feast. This means that Jesus died at the hour when the Passover lambs were being slaughtered in the Temple.

That Christians later saw this as no coincidence, that they recognized Jesus as the true Lamb, that in this way they came to see the true meaning of the ritual of the lambs — all this seems to follow naturally.

The question remains: Why did the Synoptics speak of a Passover meal? What is the basis for this strand of tradition? Not even Meier can give a truly convincing answer to this question. He makes an attempt — like many other exegetes — through redaction criticism and literary criticism. He argues that Mark 14:1a and 14:12-16 - the only passages in which Mark mentions the Passover — were later additions. In the actual account of the Last Supper itself, he claims, there is no reference to the Passover.

This argument, however many major figures have come out in support of it, is artificial. Yet Meier is right to point out that in the description of the meal itself, the Synoptics recount as little of the Passover ritual as John.

Thus with certain reservations, one can agree with his conclusion: “The entire Johannine tradition, from early to late, agrees perfectly with the primitive Synoptic tradition on the non-Passover character of the meal” (A Marginal Jew I, p. 398).

We have to ask, though, what Jesus’s Last Supper actually was. And how did it acquire its undoubtedly early attribution of Passover character?

The answer given by Meier is astonishingly simple and in many respects convincing: Jesus knew that he was about to die. He knew that he would not be able to eat the Passover again. Fully aware of this, he invited his disciples to a Last Supper of a very special kind, one that followed no specific Jewish ritual but, rather, constituted his farewell; during the meal he gave them something new: he gave them himself as the true Lamb and thereby instituted his Passover.

In all the Synoptic Gospels, the prophecy of Jesus’s death and Resurrection form part of this meal. Luke presents it in an especially solemn and mysterious form: “I have earnestly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer; for I tell you I shall not eat it until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God” (22:15-16).

The saying is ambiguous. It can mean that Jesus is eating the usual Passover meal with his disciples for the last time. But it can also mean that he is eating it no longer but, rather, is on his way to the new Passover.

One thing emerges clearly from the entire tradition: essentially, this farewell meal was not the old Passover, but the new one, which Jesus accomplished in this context.

Even though the meal that Jesus shared with the Twelve was not a Passover meal according to the ritual prescriptions of Judaism, nevertheless, in retrospect, the inner connection of the whole event with Jesus’s death and Resurrection stood out clearly.

It was Jesus’s Passover. And in this sense he both did and did not celebrate the Passover: the old rituals could not be carried out — when their time came, Jesus had already died. But he had given himself, and thus he had truly celebrated the Passover with them. The old was not abolished; it was simply brought to its full meaning.

The earliest evidence for this unified view of the new and the old, providing a new explanation of the Passover character of Jesus’s meal in terms of his death and Resurrection, is found in Saint Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians: “Cleanse out the old leaven that you may be new dough, as you really are unleavened. For Christ, our Paschal Lamb, has been sacrificed” (5:7; cf. Meier, A Marginal Jew I, pp. 429-30).

As in Mark 14:1, so here the first day of Unleavened Bread and the Passover follow in rapid succession, but the older ritual understanding is transformed into a Christological and existential interpretation. Unleavened bread must now refer to Christians themselves, who are freed from sin by the addition of yeast. But the sacrificial lamb is Christ.

Here Paul is in complete harmony with John’s presentation of events. For him the death and Resurrection of Christ have become the Passover that endures.

On this basis one can understand how it was that very early on, Jesus’s Last Supper — which includes not only a prophecy, but a real anticipation of the Cross and Resurrection in the eucharistic gifts — was regarded as a Passover: as his Passover. And so it was.

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Jesus before Pilate

Jesus’s interrogation before the Sanhedrin had concluded in the way Caiaphas had expected: Jesus was found guilty of blasphemy, for which the penalty was death.

But since only the Romans could carry out the death sentence, the case now had to be brought before Pilate and the political dimension of the guilty verdict had to be emphasized.

Jesus had declared himself to be the Messiah; hence he had laid claim to the dignity of kingship, albeit in a way peculiarly his own. The claim to Messianic kingship was a political offense, one that had to be punished by Roman justice. With cockcrow, daybreak had arrived. The Roman Governor used to hold court early in the morning.

So Jesus is now led by his accusers to the praetorium and is presented to Pilate as a criminal who deserves to die.

It is the “day of preparation” for the Passover feast. The lambs are slaughtered in the afternoon for the evening meal. Hence cultic purity must be preserved; so the priestly accusers may not enter the Gentile praetorium, and they negotiate with the Roman Governor outside the building.

John, who provides this detail (18:28-29), thereby highlights the contradiction between the scrupulous attitude to regulations for cultic purity and the question of real inner purity: it simply does not occur to Jesus’s accusers that impurity does not come from entering a Gentile house, but rather from the inner disposition of the heart.

At the same time the evangelist emphasizes that the Passover meal had not yet taken place and that the slaughter of the lambs was still to come.

In all essentials, the four Gospels harmonize with one another in their accounts of the progress of the trial. Only John reports the conversation between Jesus and Pilate, in which the question about Jesus’s kingship, the reason for his death, is explored in depth (18:33-38).

The historicity of this tradition is of course contested by exegetes. While Charles H. Dodd and Raymond E. Brown judge it positively, Charles K. Barrett is extremely critical: “John’s additions and alterations do not inspire confidence in his historical reliability” (The Gospel according to Saint John, p. 530).

Certainly no one would claim that John set out to provide anything resembling a transcript of the trial. Yet we may assume that he was able to explain with great precision the core question at issue and that he presents us with a true account of the trial.

Barrett also says “that John has with keen insight picked out the key of the Passion narrative in the kingship of Jesus, and has made its meaning clearer, perhaps, than any other New Testament writer” (ibid., p. 531).

Now we must ask: Who exactly were Jesus’ accusers? Who insisted that he be condemned to death? We must take note of the different answers that the Gospels give to this question.

According to John it was simply “the Jews”. But John’s use of this expression does not in any way indicate — as the modern reader might suppose — the people of Israel in general, even less is it “racist” in character. After all, John himself was ethnically a Jew, as were Jesus and all his followers. The entire early Christian community was made up of Jews.

In John’s Gospel this word has a precise and clearly defined meaning: he is referring to the Temple aristocracy. So the circle of accusers who instigate Jesus’ death is precisely indicated in the Fourth Gospel and clearly limited: it is the Temple aristocracy-and not without certain exceptions, as the reference to Nicodemus (7:50-52) shows.

In Mark’s Gospel, the circle of accusers is broadened in the context of the Passover amnesty (Barabbas or Jesus): the “ochlos” enters the scene and opts for the release of Barabbas. “Ochlos” in the first instance simply means a crowd of people, the “masses”. The word frequently has a pejorative connotation, meaning “mob”.

In any event, it does not refer to the Jewish people as such. In the case of the Passover amnesty (which admittedly is not attested in other sources, but even so need not be doubted), the people, as so often with such amnesties, have a right to put forward a proposal, expressed by way of “acclamation”.

Popular acclamation in this case has juridical character (cf. Pesch, Markusevangelium II, p. 466). Effectively this “crowd” is made up of the followers of Barabbas who have been mobilized to secure the amnesty for him: as a rebel against Roman power he could naturally count on a good number of supporters.

So the Barabbas party, the “crowd”, was conspicuous, while the followers of Jesus remained hidden out of fear; this meant that the vox populi, on which Roman law was built, was represented one-sidedly.

In Mark’s account, then, in addition to “the Jews”, that is to say the dominant priestly circle, the ochlos comes into play, the circle of Barabbas’ supporters, but not the Jewish people as such.

An extension of Mark’s ochlos, with fateful consequences, is found in Matthew’s account (27:25), which speaks of “all the people” and attributes to them the demand for Jesus’ crucifixion. Matthew is certainly not recounting historical fact here: How could the whole people have been present at this moment to clamor for Jesus’ death?

It seems obvious that the historical reality is correctly described in John’s account and in Mark’s. The real group of accusers are the current Temple authorities, joined in the context of the Passover amnesty by the “crowd” of Barabbas’ supporters.

Here we may agree with Joachim Gnilka, who argues that Matthew, going beyond historical considerations, is attempting a theological etiology with which to account for the terrible fate of the people of Israel in the Jewish War, when land, city, and Temple were taken from them (cf. Matthäusevangelium II, p. 459).

Matthew is thinking here of Jesus’s prophecy concerning the end of the Temple: “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, killing the prophets and stoning those who are sent to you! How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not! Behold, your house is forsaken . . .” (Mt 23:37-38: cf. Gnilka, Matthäusevangelium, the whole of the section entitled “Gerichtsworte”, II, pp. 295-308).

These words — as argued earlier, in the chapter on Jesus’s eschatological discourse — remind us of the inner similarity between the Prophet Jeremiah’s message and that of Jesus.

Jeremiah — against the blindness of the then dominant circles — prophesied the destruction of the Temple and Israel’s exile. But he also spoke of a “new covenant”: punishment is not the last word; it leads to healing.

In the same way Jesus prophesies the “deserted house” and proceeds to offer the New Covenant “in his blood”: ultimately it is a question of healing, not of destruction and rejection.

When in Matthew’s account the “whole people” say: “His blood be on us and on our children” (27:25), the Christian will remember that Jesus’ blood speaks a different language from the blood of Abel (Heb 12:24): it does not cry out for vengeance and punishment; it brings reconciliation. It is not poured out against anyone; it is poured out for many, for all. “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God … God put [ Jesus] forward as an expiation by his blood” (Rom 3:23, 25).

Just as Caiaphas’s words about the need for Jesus’s death have to be read in an entirely new light from the perspective of faith, the same applies to Matthew’s reference to blood: read in the light of faith, it means that we all stand in need of the purifying power of love which is his blood.

These words are not a curse, but rather redemption, salvation. Only when understood in terms of the theology of the Last Supper and the Cross, drawn from the whole of the New Testament, does this verse from Matthew’s Gospel take on its correct meaning.

Let us move now from the accusers to the judge: the Roman Governor Pontius Pilate. While Flavius Josephus and especially Philo of Alexandria paint a rather negative picture of him, other sources portray him as decisive, pragmatic, and realistic.

It is often said that the Gospels presented him in an increasingly positive light out of a politically motivated pro-Roman tendency and that they shifted the blame for Jesus’ death more and more onto the Jews.

Yet there were no grounds for any such tendency in the historical circumstances of the evangelists: by the time the Gospels were written, Nero’s persecution had already revealed the cruel side of the Roman State and the great arbitrariness of imperial power.

If we may date the Book of Revelation to approximately the same period as John’s Gospel, then it is clear that the Fourth Gospel did not come to be written in a context that could have given rise to a pro-Roman stance.

The image of Pilate in the Gospels presents the Roman Prefect quite realistically as a man who could be brutal when he judged this to be in the interests of public order. Yet he also knew that Rome owed its world dominance not least to its tolerance of foreign divinities and to the capacity of Roman law to build peace. This is how he comes across to us during Jesus’s trial.

The charge that Jesus claimed to be king of the Jews was a serious one. Rome had no difficulty in recognizing regional kings like Herod, but they had to be legitimated by Rome and they had to receive from Rome the definition and limitation of their sovereignty. A king without such legitimation was a rebel who threatened the Pax Romana and therefore had to be put to death.

Pilate knew, however, that no rebel uprising had been instigated by Jesus. Everything he had heard must have made Jesus seem to him like a religious fanatic, who may have offended against some Jewish legal and religious rulings, but that was of no concern to him. The Jews themselves would have to judge that. From the point of view of the Roman juridical and political order, which fell under his competence, there was nothing serious to hold against Jesus.

At this point we must pass from considerations about the person of Pilate to the trial itself. In John 18:34-35 it is clearly stated that, on the basis of the information in his possession, Pilate had nothing that would incriminate Jesus.

Nothing had come to the knowledge of the Roman authority that could in any way have posed a risk to law and order. The charge came from Jesus’s own people, from the Temple authority. It must have astonished Pilate that Jesus’s own people presented themselves to him as defenders of Rome, when the information at his disposal did not suggest the need for any action on his part.

Yet during the interrogation we suddenly arrive at a dramatic moment: Jesus’s confession. To Pilate’s question: “So you are a king?” he answers: “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I have come into the world, to bear witness to the truth. Every one who is of the truth hears my voice” (Jn 18:37).

Previously Jesus had said: “My kingship is not of this world; if my kingship were of this world, my servants would fight, that I might not be handed over to the Jews; but my kingship is not from the world” (18:36).

This “confession” of Jesus places Pilate in an extraordinary situation: the accused claims kingship and a kingdom (basileía). Yet he underlines the complete otherness of his kingship, and he even makes the particular point that must have been decisive for the Roman judge: No one is fighting for this kingship.

If power, indeed military power, is characteristic of kingship and kingdoms, there is no sign of it in Jesus’s case. And neither is there any threat to Roman order. This kingdom is powerless. It has “no legions”.

With these words Jesus created a thoroughly new concept of kingship and kingdom, and he held it up to Pilate, the representative of classical worldly power.

What is Pilate to make of it, and what are we to make of it, this concept of kingdom and kingship? Is it unreal, is it sheer fantasy that can be safely ignored? Or does it somehow affect us?

In addition to the clear delimitation of his concept of kingdom (no fighting, earthly powerlessness), Jesus had introduced a positive idea, in order to explain the nature and particular character of the power of this kingship:namely, truth.

Pilate brought another idea into play as the dialogue proceeded, one that came from his own world and was normally connected with “kingdom”: namely, power-authority (exousía).

Dominion demands power; it even defines it. Jesus, however, defines as the essence of his kingship witness to the truth. Is truth a political category? Or has Jesus’ “kingdom” nothing to do with politics? To which order does it belong?

If Jesus bases his concept of kingship and kingdom on truth as the fundamental category, then it is entirely understandable that the pragmatic Pilate asks him: “What is truth?” (18:38).

It is the question that is also asked by modern political theory: Can politics accept truth as a structural category? Or must truth, as something unattainable, be relegated to the subjective sphere, its place taken by an attempt to build peace and justice using whatever instruments are available to power?

By relying on truth, does not politics, in view of the impossibility of attaining consensus on truth, make itself a tool of particular traditions that in reality are merely forms of holding on to power?

And yet, on the other hand, what happens when truth counts for nothing? What kind of justice is then possible? Must there not be common criteria that guarantee real justice for all — criteria that are independent of the arbitrariness of changing opinions and powerful lobbies?

Is it not true that the great dictatorships were fed by the power of the ideological lie and that only truth was capable of bringing freedom?

What is truth? The pragmatist’s question, tossed off with a degree of scepticism, is a very serious question, bound up with the fate of mankind. What, then, is truth? Are we able to recognize it? Can it serve as a criterion for our intellect and will, both in individual choices and in the life of the community?

The classic definition from scholastic philosophy designates truth as “adaequatio intellectus et rei” (conformity between the intellect and reality; Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I, q. 21, a. 2c). If a man’s intellect reflects a thing as it is in itself, then he has found truth: but only a small fragment of reality-not truth in its grandeur and integrity.

We come closer to what Jesus meant with another of Saint Thomas’s teachings: “Truth is in God’s intellect properly and firstly (proprie et primo); in human intellect it is present properly and derivatively (proprie quidem et secundario)” (De Verit., q. 1, a. 4c).

And in conclusion we arrive at the succinct formula: God is “ipsa summa et prima veritas” (truth itself, the sovereign and first truth; Summa Theologiae I, q. 16, a. 5c).

This formula brings us close to what Jesus means when he speaks of the truth, when he says that his purpose in coming into the world was to “bear witness to the truth”.

Again and again in the world, truth and error, truth and untruth, are almost inseparably mixed together. The truth in all its grandeur and purity does not appear. The world is “true” to the extent that it reflects God: the creative logic, the eternal reason that brought it to birth. And it becomes more and more true the closer it draws to God.

Man becomes true, he becomes himself, when he grows in God’s likeness. Then he attains to his proper nature. God is the reality that gives being and intelligibility.

“Bearing witness to the truth” means giving priority to God and to his will over against the interests of the world and its powers. God is the criterion of being. In this sense, truth is the real “king” that confers light and greatness upon all things.

We may also say that bearing witness to the truth means making creation intelligible and its truth accessible from God’s perspective — the perspective of creative reason — in such a way that it can serve as a criterion and a signpost in this world of ours, in such a way that the great and the mighty are exposed to the power of truth, the common law, the law of truth.

Let us say plainly: the unredeemed state of the world consists precisely in the failure to understand the meaning of creation, in the failure to recognize truth; as a result, the rule of pragmatism is imposed, by which the strong arm of the powerful becomes the god of this world.

At this point, modern man is tempted to say: Creation has become intelligible to us through science. Indeed, Francis S. Collins, for example, who led the Human Genome Project, says with joyful astonishment: “The language of God was revealed” (The Language of God, p. 122).

Indeed, in the magnificent mathematics of creation, which today we can read in the human genetic code, we recognize the language of God. But unfortunately not the whole language.

The functional truth about man has been discovered. But the truth about man himself — who he is, where he comes from, what he should do, what is right, what is wrong — this unfortunately cannot be read in the same way.

Hand in hand with growing knowledge of functional truth there seems to be an increasing blindness toward “truth” itself — toward the question of our real identity and purpose.

What is truth? Pilate was not alone in dismissing this question as unanswerable and irrelevant for his purposes. Today too, in political argument and in discussion of the foundations of law, it is generally experienced as disturbing.

Yet if man lives without truth, life passes him by; ultimately he surrenders the field to whoever is the stronger. “Redemption” in the fullest sense can only consist in the truth becoming recognizable. And it becomes recognizable when God becomes recognizable. He becomes recognizable in Jesus Christ.

In Christ, God entered the world and set up the criterion of truth in the midst of history. Truth is outwardly powerless in the world, just as Christ is powerless by the world’s standards: he has no legions; he is crucified. Yet in his very powerlessness, he is powerful: only thus, again and again, does truth become power.

In the dialogue between Jesus and Pilate, the subject matter is Jesus’s kingship and, hence, the kingship, the “kingdom”, of God. In the course of this same conversation it becomes abundantly clear that there is no discontinuity between Jesus’s Galilean teaching — the proclamation of the kingdom of God — and his Jerusalem teaching.

The center of the message, all the way to the Cross - all the way to the inscription above the Cross - is the kingdom of God, the new kingship represented by Jesus. And this kingship is centered on truth.

The kingship proclaimed by Jesus, at first in parables and then at the end quite openly before the earthly judge, is none other than the kingship of truth. The inauguration of this kingship is man’s true liberation.

At the same time it becomes clear that between the pre-Resurrection focus on the kingdom of God and the post-Resurrection focus on faith in Jesus Christ as Son of God there is no contradiction. In Christ, God — the Truth — entered the world. Christology is the concrete form acquired by the proclamation of God’s kingdom.

After the interrogation, Pilate knew for certain what in principle he had already known beforehand: this Jesus was no political rebel; his message and his activity posed no threat for the Roman rulers. Whether Jesus had offended against the Torah was of no concern to him as a Roman.

Yet Pilate seems also to have experienced a certain superstitious wariness concerning this remarkable figure. True, Pilate was a sceptic. As a man of his time, though, he did not exclude the possibility that gods or, at any rate, god-like beings could take on human form. John tells us that “the Jews” accused Jesus of making himself the Son of God, and then he adds: “When Pilate heard these words, he was even more afraid” (19:8).

I think we must take seriously the idea of Pilate’s fear: Perhaps there really was something divine in this man? Perhaps Pilate would be opposing divine power if he were to condemn him? Perhaps he would have to reckon with the anger of the deity?

I think his attitude during the trial can be explained not only on the basis of a certain commitment to see justice done, but also on the basis of such considerations as these.

Jesus’s accusers obviously realize this, and so they now play off one fear against another. Against the superstitious fear of a possible divine presence, they appeal to the entirely practical fear of forfeiting the emperor’s favor, being removed from office, and thus plunging into a downward spiral.

The declaration: “If you release this man, you are not Caesar’s friend” ( Jn 19:12) is a threat. In the end, concern for career proves stronger than fear of divine powers.

Before the final verdict, though, there is a further dramatic and painful interlude in three acts, which we must consider at least briefly.

The first act sees Pilate presenting Jesus as a candidate for the Passover amnesty and seeking in this way to release him. In doing so, he puts himself in a fatal situation. Anyone put forward as a candidate for the amnesty is in principle already condemned. Otherwise, the amnesty would make no sense.

If the crowd has the right of acclamation, then according to their response, the one they do not choose is to be regarded as condemned. In this sense, the proposed release on the basis of the amnesty already tacitly implies condemnation.

Regarding the juxtaposition of Jesus and Barabbas and the theological significance of the choice placed before the crowd, I have already written in some detail in Part One of this book (pp. 40-41). Here I shall merely recall the essentials.

According to our translations, John refers to Barabbas simply as a robber (18:40). In the political context of the time, though, the Greek word that John uses had also acquired the meaning of terrorist or freedom fighter. It is clear from Mark’s account that this is the intended meaning: “And among the rebels in prison, who had committed murder in the insurrection, there was a man called Barabbas” (15:7).

Barabbas (“Son of the Father”) is a kind of Messianic figure. Two interpretations of Messianic hope are juxtaposed here in the offer of the Passover amnesty. In terms of Roman law, it is a case of two criminals convicted of the same offense-two rebels against the Pax Romana.

It is clear that Pilate prefers the nonviolent “fanatic” that he sees in Jesus. Yet the crowd and the Temple authorities have different categories. If the Temple aristocracy felt constrained to declare: “We have no king but Caesar” ( Jn 19:15), this only appears to be a renunciation of Israel’s Messianic hope: “We do not want this king” is what they mean. They would like to see a different solution to the problem.

Again and again, mankind will be faced with this same choice: to say yes to the God who works only through the power of truth and love, or to build on something tangible and concrete — on violence.

Jesus’s followers are absent from the place of judgment, absent through fear. But they are also absent in the sense that they fail to step forward en masse. Their voice will make itself heard on the day of Pentecost in Peter’s preaching, which cuts “to the heart” the very people who had earlier supported Barabbas.

In answer to the question “Brethren, what shall we do?” they receive the answer: “Repent” — renew and transform your thinking, your being (cf. Acts 2:37-38). This is the summons which, in view of the Barabbas scene and its many recurrences throughout history, should tear open our hearts and change our lives.

The second act is succinctly summarized by John as follows: “Then Pilate took Jesus and scourged him” (19:1). In Roman criminal law, scourging was the punishment that accompanied the death sentence (Hengel and Schwemer, Jesus und das Judentum, p. 609).

In John’s Gospel, however, it is presented as an act during the interrogation, a measure that the Prefect was empowered to take on the basis of his responsibility for law enforcement.

It was an extremely barbaric punishment; the victim was “struck by several torturers for as long as it took for them to grow tired, and for the flesh of the criminal to hang down in bleeding shreds” (Blinzler, Der Prozess Jesu, p. 321).

Rudolf Pesch notes in this regard: “The fact that Simon of Cyrene has to carry the cross-beam for Jesus and that Jesus dies so quickly may well be attributable to the torture of scourging, during which other criminals sometimes would already have died” (Markusevangelium II, p. 467).

The third act is the crowning with thorns. The soldiers are playing cruel games with Jesus. They know that he claims to be a king. But now he is in their hands; now it pleases them to humiliate him, to display their power over him, and perhaps to offload vicariously onto him their anger against their rulers. Him whose whole body is torn and wounded, they vest, as a caricature, with the tokens of imperial majesty: the purple robe, the crown plaited from thorns, and the reed scepter.

They pay homage to him: “Hail, King of the Jews”; their homage consists of blows to his head, through which they once more express their utter contempt for him (Mt 27:28-30; Mk 15:17-19; Jn 19:2-3).

The history of religions knows the figure of the mock king — related to the figure of the “scapegoat”. Whatever may be afflicting the people is offloaded onto him: in this way it is to be driven out of the world.

Without realizing it, the soldiers were actually accomplishing what those rites and ceremonies were unable to achieve: “Upon him was the chastisement that made us whole, and with his stripes we are healed” (Is 53:5). Thus caricatured, Jesus is led to Pilate, and Pilate presents him to the crowd-to all mankind: “Ecce homo”, “Here is the man!” (Jn 19:5).

The Roman judge is no doubt distressed at the sight of the wounded and derided figure of this mysterious defendant. He is counting on the compassion of those who see him.

“Ecce homo” – the expression spontaneously takes on a depth of meaning that reaches far beyond this moment in history. In Jesus, it is man himself that is manifested. In him is displayed the suffering of all who are subjected to violence, all the downtrodden. His suffering mirrors the inhumanity of worldly power, which so ruthlessly crushes the powerless. In him is reflected what we call “sin”: this is what happens when man turns his back upon God and takes control over the world into his own hands.

There is another side to all this though: Jesus’s innermost dignity cannot be taken from him. The hidden God remains present within him. Even the man subjected to violence and vilification remains the image of God.

Ever since Jesus submitted to violence, it has been the wounded, the victims of violence, who have been the image of the God who chose to suffer for us. So Jesus in the throes of his Passion is an image of hope: God is on the side of those who suffer.

Finally, Pilate takes his place on the judgment seat. Once again he says: “Here is your King!” (Jn 19:14). Then he pronounces the death sentence.

Indeed the great “Truth” of which Jesus had spoken was inaccessible to Pilate. Yet the concrete truth of this particular case he knew very well. He knew that this Jesus was not a political criminal and that the kingship he claimed did not represent any political danger — that he ought therefore to be acquitted.

As Prefect, Pilate represented Roman law, on which the Pax Romana rested — the peace of the empire that spanned the world. This peace was secured, on the one hand, through Rome’s military might. But military force alone does not generate peace. Peace depends on justice.

Rome’s real strength lay in its legal system, the juridical order on which men could rely. Pilate — let us repeat — knew the truth of this case, and hence he knew what justice demanded of him.

Yet ultimately it was the pragmatic concept of law that won the day with him: more important than the truth of this case, he probably reasoned, is the peace-building role of law, and in this way he doubtless justified his action to himself.

Releasing this innocent man could not only cause him personal damage — and such fear was certainly a decisive factor behind his action — it could also give rise to further disturbances and unrest, which had to be avoided at all costs, especially at the time of the Passover.

In this case peace counted for more than justice in Pilate’s eyes. Not only the great, inaccessible Truth but also the concrete truth of Jesus’s case had to recede into the background: in this way he believed he was fulfilling the real purpose of the law — its peace-building function.

Perhaps this was how he eased his conscience. For the time being, all seemed to be going well. Jerusalem remained calm. At a later date, though, it would become clear that peace, in the final analysis, cannot be established at the expense of truth.

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John gives a new depth to the psalm verse with which Jesus spoke prophetically of what lay ahead, since instead of the expression given in the Greek Bible for “eating”, he chooses the verb trôgein, the word used by Jesus in the great “bread of life” discourse for “eating” his flesh and blood, that is, receiving the sacrament of the Eucharist ( Jn 6:54–58).

So the psalm verse casts a prophetic shadow over the Church of the evangelist’s own day, in which the Eucharist was celebrated, and indeed over the Church of all times: Judas’s betrayal was not the last breach of fidelity that Jesus would suffer.

“Even my bosom friend, in whom I trusted, who ate my bread, has lifted his heel against me” (Ps 41:9). The breach of friendship extends into the sacramental community of the Church, where people continue to take “his bread” and to betray him.

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John concludes the passage about Judas with these dramatic words: “After receiving the morsel, he immediately went out; and it was night” (13:30). Judas goes out—in a deeper sense. He goes into the night; he moves out of light into darkness: the “power of darkness” has taken hold of him (cf. Jn 3:19; Lk 22:53).

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John goes to great lengths to indicate that the Last Supper was not a Passover meal. On the contrary: the Jewish authorities who led Jesus before Pilate’s court avoided entering the praetorium, “so that they might not be defiled, but might eat the Passover” (18:28).

The Passover, therefore, began only in the evening, and at the time of the trial the Passover meal had not yet taken place; the trial and crucifixion took place on the day before the Passover, on the “day of preparation”, not on the feast day itself. The Passover feast in the year in question accordingly ran from Friday evening until Saturday evening, not from Thursday evening until Friday evening.

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He concludes that one has to choose between the Synoptic and Johannine chronologies, and he argues, on the basis of the whole range of source material, that the weight of evidence favors John.

John is right when he says that at the time of Jesus’s trial before Pilate, the Jewish authorities had not yet eaten the Passover and, thus, had to keep themselves ritually pure. He is right that the crucifixion took place, not on the feast, but on the day before the feast. This means that Jesus died at the hour when the Passover lambs were being slaughtered in the Temple.

That Christians later saw this as no coincidence, that they recognized Jesus as the true Lamb, that in this way they came to see the true meaning of the ritual of the lambs — all this seems to follow naturally.

The question remains: Why did the Synoptics speak of a Passover meal? What is the basis for this strand of tradition? Not even Meier can give a truly convincing answer to this question.

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One thing emerges clearly from the entire tradition: essentially, this farewell meal was not the old Passover, but the new one, which Jesus accomplished in this context.

Even though the meal that Jesus shared with the Twelve was not a Passover meal according to the ritual prescriptions of Judaism, nevertheless, in retrospect, the inner connection of the whole event with Jesus’s death and Resurrection stood out clearly.

It was Jesus’s Passover. And in this sense he both did and did not celebrate the Passover: the old rituals could not be carried out — when their time came, Jesus had already died. But he had given himself, and thus he had truly celebrated the Passover with them. The old was not abolished; it was simply brought to its full meaning.

The earliest evidence for this unified view of the new and the old, providing a new explanation of the Passover character of Jesus’s meal in terms of his death and Resurrection, is found in Saint Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians: “Cleanse out the old leaven that you may be new dough, as you really are unleavened. For Christ, our Paschal Lamb, has been sacrificed” (5:7; cf. Meier, A Marginal Jew I, pp. 429-30).

As in Mark 14:1, so here the first day of Unleavened Bread and the Passover follow in rapid succession, but the older ritual understanding is transformed into a Christological and existential interpretation. Unleavened bread must now refer to Christians themselves, who are freed from sin by the addition of yeast. But the sacrificial lamb is Christ.

Here Paul is in complete harmony with John’s presentation of events. For him the death and Resurrection of Christ have become the Passover that endures.

On this basis one can understand how it was that very early on, Jesus’s Last Supper — which includes not only a prophecy, but a real anticipation of the Cross and Resurrection in the eucharistic gifts — was regarded as a Passover: as his Passover. And so it was.

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At the same time, we have no reason to suppose, granted all we have seen of Jesus’s agenda and the normal mode of operating, that he would have felt bound to celebrate the festival on the officially appointed day. Scriptural regulations permitted Passover to be kept, in case of necessity, at another time than that laid down…

….The symbols ordering Israel’s life and hope were redrawn, focusing now upon Jesus himself. The final meal which he celebrated with his followers was not, in that sense, free-standing. It gained its significance from his own entire life and agenda, and from the events which, he knew, would shortly come to pass.

….Within this wider context, Jesus’ actions with the bread and the cup – which there is excellent warrant to regard as historical – must be seen in the same way as the symbolic actions of certain prophets in the Hebrew scriptures.

Jeremiah smashes a pot; Ezekiel makes a model of Jerusalem under siege. The actions carry prophetic power, effecting the events (mostly acts of judgment) wich are then to occur….

Jesus intended this meal to symbolize the new exodus, the arrival of the kingdom through his own fate. The meal, focused on Jesus’s actions with the bread and the cup, told the Passover story, and Jesus’s own story, and wove these two into one.

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This morning at the Apostolic Palace, the Holy Father Benedict XVI received the President of the Republic of Chile, Sebastian Pinera Echenigue, who subsequently met with Cardinal Secretary of State Tarcisio Bertone and Mons. Dominique Mamberti, secretary for relations with states.

During these talks, topics of common interest were discussed, such as safeguarding human life and the family, aid for integral national development, the fight against poverty, respect for human rights, justice and social peace.

In this context, the role and the positive contribution of Catholic institutions to Chilean society were brought up, especially in the field of human promotion and formation.

In a panoramic overview of the situation in Latin America, the holy See and the Chilean government are in agreement on the fundamental values of human coexistence.

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My dear Brother Bishops,

It is with joy that I welcome you as you make your visit ad Limina Apostolorum. I extend my cordial greetings through you to the priests, religious, and faithful of your various dioceses.

Our meeting today affords me the opportunity to thank you collectively for the pastoral work you carry out with love for Christ and for his people.

As Saint Paul says, “Let us not grow weary of doing good; if we do not relax our efforts, in due time we shall reap our harvest” (Gal 6:9).

With these words, the Apostle encourages his readers to do good to all, but especially to those of the household of the faith. He presents us with a double imperative, one which is most appropriate to your ministry as bishops in the central and southern islands of the Philippine archipelago. You must labor in doing good among Christians and non-Christians alike.

Regarding “those of the household of the faith” who require your apostolic care, the Church in your respective regions naturally shares many of the pastoral challenges confronting the rest of the country.

Among them, one of the most important is the task of ongoing catechetical formation. The deep personal piety of your people needs to be nourished and supported by a profound understanding of and appreciation for the teachings of the Church in matters of faith and morals.

Indeed, these elements are required in order for the human heart to give its full and proper response to God. As you continue to strengthen catechesis in your dioceses, do not fail to include in it an outreach to families, with particular care for parents in their role as the first educators of their children in the faith.

This work is already evident in your support of the family in the face of influences which would diminish or destroy its rights and integrity. I appreciate that providing this kind of catechetical formation is no small task, and I take the opportunity to salute the many religious sisters and lay catechists who assist you in this important work.

Indeed, as diocesan bishops you never face any challenge alone, being assisted first and foremost by your clergy. Along with you, they have devoted their lives to the service of God and his people, and require in their turn your fatherly care.

As you are aware, you and your fellow bishops have a particular duty to know your priests well and to guide them with sincere concern, while priests are always to be prepared to fulfill humbly and faithfully the tasks entrusted to them. In such a spirit of mutual cooperation for the sake of the Kingdom of God, surely “in due time we shall reap our harvest” of faith.

Many of your dioceses already have in place programs of continuing formation for young priests, assisting them in their transition from the structured schedule of the seminary to the more independent setting of parish life.

Along these lines, it is also helpful for them to be assigned mentors from among those older priests who have proven themselves to be faithful servants of the Lord. These men can guide their younger confrères along the path toward a mature and well-balanced way of priestly living.

Moreover, priests of all ages require ongoing care. Regular days of recollection, yearly retreats and convocations, as well as programs for continuing education and assistance for priests who may be facing difficulties, are to be promoted.

I am confident that you will also find ways to support those priests whose assignments leave them isolated. It is gratifying to note how the Second National Congress for the Clergy, held during the Year for Priests, was just such an occasion for renewal and fraternal support.

In order to build upon this momentum, I encourage you to profit from the yearly celebration of Holy Thursday, during which the Church commemorates the priesthood in a special way.

In accordance with their solemn promises at ordination, remind your priests of their commitment to celibacy, obedience, and an ever greater dedication to pastoral service. In living out their promises, these men will become true spiritual fathers with a personal and psychological maturity that will grow to mirror the paternity of God.

With respect to Saint Paul’s command to do good to those not of the household of the faith, dialogue with other religions remains a high priority, especially in the southern areas of your country.

While the Church proclaims without fail that Christ is the way, the truth, and the life (cf. Jn 14:6), nevertheless she respects all that is true and good in other religions, and she seeks, with prudence and charity, to enter into an honest and amicable dialogue with the followers of those religions whenever possible (cf. Nostra Aetate, 2).

In doing so, the Church works toward mutual understanding and the advancement of the common good of humanity. I commend you for the work you have already done and I encourage you, by means of the dialogue that has been established, to continue to promote the path to true and lasting peace with all of your neighbors, never failing to treat each person, no matter his or her beliefs, as created in the image of God.

Finally, as we strive not to “grow weary of doing good,” we are reminded that the greatest good that we can offer those whom we serve is given to us in the Eucharist.

In the Holy Mass, the faithful receive the grace needed to be transformed in Jesus Christ. It is heartening that many Filipinos attend Sunday Mass, but this does not leave room for complacency on your part as shepherds.

It is your task, and that of your priests, never to grow weary in pursuing the lost sheep, making sure that all the faithful draw life from the great gift given to us in the Sacred Mysteries.

Dear Brother Bishops, I thank the Lord for these days of your visit to the City of Peter and Paul, during which God has strengthened our bonds of communion. Through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, may the good Lord bring your work to completion.

I assure you of remembrance in my prayers and willingly impart to you and to the faithful entrusted to your care my Apostolic Blessing as a pledge of grace and peace.

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